"It's your fault." It's not often to tell a client that, but sometimes it's the truth. 12 person jury, and they convicted him. It was his own fault, really. I call it The Giver's Dilemma. Like the prisoner's, only not alike at all. Essentially, you give gifts. And then you must give better gifts. And better gifts after that. And the gifts given in childhood count the highest, in this regard. We can remember when we got for our eighth birthday and not last year. To whit: if you give shitty gifts, the shit hits the fan.
In his case, 15 years without chance of parole.
I told the jury, "You can't put Santa in a no-fly list! He's the spirit of Christmas! Sure, he has sherry at every single home, but he's never been charged with a DUI yet." It failed. Horribly, miserably, failed. The prosecution got into the obesity epidemic, and my client as a poor role model, and then got into the whereabouts of Mrs. Claus, and the nature of Santa's 'elves'.
I tried to point out the magical aspects, to help salvage my client's dignity, but it never worked. I said: "And then the presents appear!" made more sense than the prosecution's arguments about relativity and a-entropic space/time fields. To which he said: "Oh, yes, and 'a stork brings them' makes more sense to children than nonsense about sexual reproduction."
Did the prosecutor made the naughty often? Don't even go there. It's an invasion of privacy and rights that made the Bush-Cheny administration look like poster boys for libertarianism. Then we had PETA weigh in on flying reindeer, church leaders on how my client had turned the Christmas season from a holiday about someone not born in December in a manger who may not have existed into crass commercialism that netted companies small fortunes and boosted the economy. It was the only part I won.
I tried to appeal to the fact that my client was a mythological entity, but I had no more luck than Creationists on their best days. I appealed to his Sainthood in the end, desperate for anything to sway jurors muttering about scab labour and shoddy toys and the prosecutor -- he just smiled. The scroogiest, grinchiest smile in lawsville, and said: "Your client is a bearded pseudo-saint with an affinity for the color red who makes it his mission to redistribute wealth to the youth that follow his orthodox code of behavior, while at the same time de-emphasizing religion? There is no Santa. He's just a fat, magical Trotsky!"
They laughed all the way though my attempts at a rebuttal. The jury convicted in in less than five minutes for a DUI, terrorism, flying without proper licences, animal abuse, scab labour, using illegal tactics to break up unions. Christ. I can't even recall all of it.
And when it was over, the Prosecutor laughed and left, a halo around his head, and said: "Yes! People wil celebrate Christmas in my name again! Mine, not a pathetic third century saint!" Never did get his name., but damn he argued a good case.
Showing posts with label 2008. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2008. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Confessionals
“In nomine ....” The priest paused, unsure how it went from there. You are dying, he informed himself, but he already knew that. Memory had degraded, simple things become complicated, complicated ones simple. Two hours ago, he had rounded off pi to save time. What pi had been before was -- gone.
“In name,” he said. “In the name of. Yes. That is is.” But what? He moved slowly through the junkyard, hands touching things at random as if hoping to spark memory from rust.
I am dying, he thought again. It was not comforting. It was not uncomfortable. It just was. He knew he should not be. He had been the word made flesh, to live forever. But the world moved on, as worlds do.
Who used fossil fuels? Energy cubes? No one, and none. And all that ran on them, dying and discarded. An immortality that does not change is only a prolonged death. Change. Strive. Or die. It seemed so simple now.
The priest moved slowly, senses acute, hearing the child crying. There were responses built into him, about children crying, and comfort. Memory dredged up voices: “He is a robot: he cannot hurt the children, as men of cloth have. It is a perfect choice.” But I have words, he thought now, so I can. Other memories came and went, brief sparks, like a hurricane touching down and vanishing again.
He used to be Important, the priest knew. Powerful, with the true kind of power, the kind used to better serve others. He had changed lives, helped people, told them the words that they needed to hear for the moment (often not what they had to hear, no, but the priest understood that few wanted what they needed). He wondered what he needed, but the crying voice seemed enough.
To do what I was meant for, he thought, and he was, if not satisfied, at least content.
The child was human, or human enough. To the priest, ‘human’ was ‘consciousness’ and he knew it when he saw it, in humans or otherwise. There are things that scanners cannot scan, he remembered counselling other robots. We are more than the sum of our parts.
And the child before him was that. The priest counted several back-up organs, regenerative tissue, and currently a broken arm lodged under a fallen machine.
The child cried, pulling at his arm though it did not move. He could have cut it off, and grown a new one, but that would have hurt more. So the child cried, and waited for rescue.
“I am here,” the priest said, kneeling down beside the child.
The child looked up, confused, and the robot was aware of being scanned in turn. “A robot?” Wonder replaced pain, for a few moments. “I didn’t know we still had robots.”
The priest did not wince: his features remained calm, placid, hiding any pain that could have shown. “What do you need?”
“My arm is trapped,” the child said.. “And I don’t think my distress call is reaching my sister.”
The priest nodded, assessing the rubble and making calculations. “I am not certain I can free you from this: my systems are dying.”
“Ah.” The child fell silent, pale with pain. “Is it hard?”
“Dying?”
The child nodded.
“Sometimes. Things grow harder.” The priest sat down, sevros whining in protest. “Do you have priests, still?”
“Some,” the child said. “But we are all immortal now. If I die here, I will live again with these memories, or most of them, in moments. It is only sleep, for us.”
“A different world.” The priest was quiet then, wondering what their lives must be like. “Are you often sad, or happy?”
“When I want to be,” the child said. “I could turn off my pain receptors, but then this would have no meaning.” He tugged at his arm, which remained stuck. “It will be a poor story to tell if I’m not hurt.”
“You could free yourself,” the priest said.
“I know. But then what’s the point to getting stuck, or the purpose?” the child asked.
The priest stared into bright and challenging eyes. “I am a machine, for all that I am. I cannot escape that. But the universe is not one. Things do not have a purpose, as if they were equal, as if you are interchangable, as if it were a machine. To have purpose implies function. What is your function?”
The child fell silent, thinking it over. “To live? It is what I am best at,” was added,. and the priest approved of the humour.
“You are, and you are a part of life. There is no Purpose in that, no Meaning. I am, and you are, and we are part of life, and life is.” The priest stood, slowly. “This is not what I was taught to say, but it is what comes to me now. Sparks of data over memory crystals. Everything we do is like that. Meaning is not necessary. Appreciation is.”
“Are you sure you’re not broken?” the child said, tugging at his arm again.
“I am running down. I am dying. I am not certain the comparison applies.”
“What do you do?” the child finally said.
“I watch more sunsets,” the robot priest said. “I compare. I contrast. I am reminded that everything changes. And I am often afraid,” he added, mostly to himself. Death would end everything save memory, and only this child might recall him of all that now lived.
“I’m not,” the child said.
“Yes.” The priest stared down. A part of him wanted to ask if the child was certain to survive, if no distress call meant the child would not project awareness into a new body, but the priest knew them for its own pain, and said nothing. He reached down, with his good arm.
“In nomine,” he said. “Yours and mine.” And he pulled the child free of the arm. The child screamed in pain, for a moment, the blocked the pain and pushed the priest back.
“You - you hurt me?” the child said, a new arm growing.
“I gave what you needed,” the priest said. “I am sorry.” He turned away, uncertain if he was more sorry for the child or himself. He would never have done that, before. But everything was falling apart. Even primary programs. Even his own commands. Desires remained, even now, but the child’s pain remained as well.
The priest sat down, calmly, and stared up at the sky. The sun would rise, the sun would set. He waited to appreciate it.
“In name,” he said. “In the name of. Yes. That is is.” But what? He moved slowly through the junkyard, hands touching things at random as if hoping to spark memory from rust.
I am dying, he thought again. It was not comforting. It was not uncomfortable. It just was. He knew he should not be. He had been the word made flesh, to live forever. But the world moved on, as worlds do.
Who used fossil fuels? Energy cubes? No one, and none. And all that ran on them, dying and discarded. An immortality that does not change is only a prolonged death. Change. Strive. Or die. It seemed so simple now.
The priest moved slowly, senses acute, hearing the child crying. There were responses built into him, about children crying, and comfort. Memory dredged up voices: “He is a robot: he cannot hurt the children, as men of cloth have. It is a perfect choice.” But I have words, he thought now, so I can. Other memories came and went, brief sparks, like a hurricane touching down and vanishing again.
He used to be Important, the priest knew. Powerful, with the true kind of power, the kind used to better serve others. He had changed lives, helped people, told them the words that they needed to hear for the moment (often not what they had to hear, no, but the priest understood that few wanted what they needed). He wondered what he needed, but the crying voice seemed enough.
To do what I was meant for, he thought, and he was, if not satisfied, at least content.
The child was human, or human enough. To the priest, ‘human’ was ‘consciousness’ and he knew it when he saw it, in humans or otherwise. There are things that scanners cannot scan, he remembered counselling other robots. We are more than the sum of our parts.
And the child before him was that. The priest counted several back-up organs, regenerative tissue, and currently a broken arm lodged under a fallen machine.
The child cried, pulling at his arm though it did not move. He could have cut it off, and grown a new one, but that would have hurt more. So the child cried, and waited for rescue.
“I am here,” the priest said, kneeling down beside the child.
The child looked up, confused, and the robot was aware of being scanned in turn. “A robot?” Wonder replaced pain, for a few moments. “I didn’t know we still had robots.”
The priest did not wince: his features remained calm, placid, hiding any pain that could have shown. “What do you need?”
“My arm is trapped,” the child said.. “And I don’t think my distress call is reaching my sister.”
The priest nodded, assessing the rubble and making calculations. “I am not certain I can free you from this: my systems are dying.”
“Ah.” The child fell silent, pale with pain. “Is it hard?”
“Dying?”
The child nodded.
“Sometimes. Things grow harder.” The priest sat down, sevros whining in protest. “Do you have priests, still?”
“Some,” the child said. “But we are all immortal now. If I die here, I will live again with these memories, or most of them, in moments. It is only sleep, for us.”
“A different world.” The priest was quiet then, wondering what their lives must be like. “Are you often sad, or happy?”
“When I want to be,” the child said. “I could turn off my pain receptors, but then this would have no meaning.” He tugged at his arm, which remained stuck. “It will be a poor story to tell if I’m not hurt.”
“You could free yourself,” the priest said.
“I know. But then what’s the point to getting stuck, or the purpose?” the child asked.
The priest stared into bright and challenging eyes. “I am a machine, for all that I am. I cannot escape that. But the universe is not one. Things do not have a purpose, as if they were equal, as if you are interchangable, as if it were a machine. To have purpose implies function. What is your function?”
The child fell silent, thinking it over. “To live? It is what I am best at,” was added,. and the priest approved of the humour.
“You are, and you are a part of life. There is no Purpose in that, no Meaning. I am, and you are, and we are part of life, and life is.” The priest stood, slowly. “This is not what I was taught to say, but it is what comes to me now. Sparks of data over memory crystals. Everything we do is like that. Meaning is not necessary. Appreciation is.”
“Are you sure you’re not broken?” the child said, tugging at his arm again.
“I am running down. I am dying. I am not certain the comparison applies.”
“What do you do?” the child finally said.
“I watch more sunsets,” the robot priest said. “I compare. I contrast. I am reminded that everything changes. And I am often afraid,” he added, mostly to himself. Death would end everything save memory, and only this child might recall him of all that now lived.
“I’m not,” the child said.
“Yes.” The priest stared down. A part of him wanted to ask if the child was certain to survive, if no distress call meant the child would not project awareness into a new body, but the priest knew them for its own pain, and said nothing. He reached down, with his good arm.
“In nomine,” he said. “Yours and mine.” And he pulled the child free of the arm. The child screamed in pain, for a moment, the blocked the pain and pushed the priest back.
“You - you hurt me?” the child said, a new arm growing.
“I gave what you needed,” the priest said. “I am sorry.” He turned away, uncertain if he was more sorry for the child or himself. He would never have done that, before. But everything was falling apart. Even primary programs. Even his own commands. Desires remained, even now, but the child’s pain remained as well.
The priest sat down, calmly, and stared up at the sky. The sun would rise, the sun would set. He waited to appreciate it.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
The Art of Interviewing
When the come to the Firm it is my job to talk to them; I like to consider myself a First Responder.
"Yes, we offer brand name recognition." "Yes, we can give you new powers." "Yes, we help design your costume for you." "Yes, we hook you up with the best PR firms."
But really, I just ask questions. I'm good with those, and silences others feel the need to fill. And most of them want to talk: hiding their truths from family, lovers, friends. I've never understood why they do that, or what it says about them and trust, but we make a lot by referring them to discreet psychiatrists. If you can't tell your S.O. you are a superhero and you go around fighting for justice and truth, it adds up to a lot of sessions.
They talk away, and I just listen. You have to be a good listener, in this job. You have to know what to say, what can't be said, what must be said even if the client could destroy the entire office building in under three seconds. It's like poking a lion in a cage, waiting for it to roar. I understand why supervillains do the things they do better, now. (I prefer the publicity end of The Firm to the financial, so I have few dealings with them.)
Most of the heroes are scared, when they talk to me. What if they lose control? What if they turn on 'beat up villain' and can't turn it off? Even with training and government funding, there is always that fear. But fear doesn't always limit potential. I pay attention to the ones with potential,. the promise for heroism, who need that small extra push to greatness.
Some of them do realize something is missing, some indefinable drive or need, but they skirt the issue, slip aside from it. And I listen, nod, make notes, and run scanners, learn identities, probe secrets. Many of them have horrible masks that any decent face-rendering system can bypass. For the others, there are simple 2-minute DNA tests, secret databanks, and government files. Can't represent a client you don't really know, after all.
We weed out the ones without families, focusing on the loved, the cherished, the kindly family people. And we send our agents out, some time after the hero has left for work, or on a patrol. Because the Firm gives the services the heroes need, not only those they want. Because only the tragic hero is real, because we are defined by our loss, the sum total of regrets. Because a pure hatred can make a hero that no idealism can truly foster.
Because they could be great, and if their families must die to save the world, this is the price paid. We include it in the miscellaneous fees, when we do not do it for free.
"Yes, we offer brand name recognition." "Yes, we can give you new powers." "Yes, we help design your costume for you." "Yes, we hook you up with the best PR firms."
But really, I just ask questions. I'm good with those, and silences others feel the need to fill. And most of them want to talk: hiding their truths from family, lovers, friends. I've never understood why they do that, or what it says about them and trust, but we make a lot by referring them to discreet psychiatrists. If you can't tell your S.O. you are a superhero and you go around fighting for justice and truth, it adds up to a lot of sessions.
They talk away, and I just listen. You have to be a good listener, in this job. You have to know what to say, what can't be said, what must be said even if the client could destroy the entire office building in under three seconds. It's like poking a lion in a cage, waiting for it to roar. I understand why supervillains do the things they do better, now. (I prefer the publicity end of The Firm to the financial, so I have few dealings with them.)
Most of the heroes are scared, when they talk to me. What if they lose control? What if they turn on 'beat up villain' and can't turn it off? Even with training and government funding, there is always that fear. But fear doesn't always limit potential. I pay attention to the ones with potential,. the promise for heroism, who need that small extra push to greatness.
Some of them do realize something is missing, some indefinable drive or need, but they skirt the issue, slip aside from it. And I listen, nod, make notes, and run scanners, learn identities, probe secrets. Many of them have horrible masks that any decent face-rendering system can bypass. For the others, there are simple 2-minute DNA tests, secret databanks, and government files. Can't represent a client you don't really know, after all.
We weed out the ones without families, focusing on the loved, the cherished, the kindly family people. And we send our agents out, some time after the hero has left for work, or on a patrol. Because the Firm gives the services the heroes need, not only those they want. Because only the tragic hero is real, because we are defined by our loss, the sum total of regrets. Because a pure hatred can make a hero that no idealism can truly foster.
Because they could be great, and if their families must die to save the world, this is the price paid. We include it in the miscellaneous fees, when we do not do it for free.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Before the Injection
things that must be done
They ask me -- where from? --
even as I pick my last meal
(I pick the one you
always made, in silence)
I remember how you touched me.
I know where strength comes from.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Remember Ficlets
Remember Ficlets
The old man sat in the room, sunlight sliding in through cracks in the grimy window, and waited. There was cheering outside, joy and laughter; the sounds of children learning adult games of war, dominance - but hush, he told himself. It was never like that, when you were young. It was only a game, not a tool. Only a game.
He stood slowly, joints letting him know he was alive with the occasional twinge of too-familiar pain. The children had stopped coming, for lessons or for stories. Time had moved on; other heroes, other legends: some of them went out to make their own. He could see it in their eyes, remembered the hunger in his own.
"The price is having to be the best," he'd told them, desperate and sad and yearning. Nothing remains: you grow old, lose, try again. Then you are too old and there is nothing left but a pale mockery fighting the same old fight.
He turned on the lamp beside the bed, electric light filling the room, and stared at the ball in it, whispering: "I choose you," and remembering his youth.
The old man sat in the room, sunlight sliding in through cracks in the grimy window, and waited. There was cheering outside, joy and laughter; the sounds of children learning adult games of war, dominance - but hush, he told himself. It was never like that, when you were young. It was only a game, not a tool. Only a game.
He stood slowly, joints letting him know he was alive with the occasional twinge of too-familiar pain. The children had stopped coming, for lessons or for stories. Time had moved on; other heroes, other legends: some of them went out to make their own. He could see it in their eyes, remembered the hunger in his own.
"The price is having to be the best," he'd told them, desperate and sad and yearning. Nothing remains: you grow old, lose, try again. Then you are too old and there is nothing left but a pale mockery fighting the same old fight.
He turned on the lamp beside the bed, electric light filling the room, and stared at the ball in it, whispering: "I choose you," and remembering his youth.
3 short poems found on looseleaf paper
Untitled
We have names for the masks
Not for what lies under;
We only have words for
Things we have words for;
Every time I dream of you
I forget a few more.
A finished fragment
The final piece of the puzzle
wasn't found in the box
(I made it in the backyard shed
cut & sanded to fit need);
The emptiness in the eyes
only wakens to a dream.
Waking
I wish to wake before the dawn
To see the night as clear as day
When everything that's come is gone
Leaving us nothing left to say.
Water's reflected on the moon
I'm dreaming of my destiny
And everything that comes too soon
Beneath the wide and empty sea.
We have names for the masks
Not for what lies under;
We only have words for
Things we have words for;
Every time I dream of you
I forget a few more.
A finished fragment
The final piece of the puzzle
wasn't found in the box
(I made it in the backyard shed
cut & sanded to fit need);
The emptiness in the eyes
only wakens to a dream.
Waking
I wish to wake before the dawn
To see the night as clear as day
When everything that's come is gone
Leaving us nothing left to say.
Water's reflected on the moon
I'm dreaming of my destiny
And everything that comes too soon
Beneath the wide and empty sea.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Untitled Poem
I walked with her in dusk and gloom
Though the will'o'wisps clear light
In darkness and in fears
And a hundred silent nights
Underneath the newest moon.
Every night I walked her home anon
No matter the rain nor wind
Sometimes we shared our quiet fears
And others would remind
Ourselves to all that's been and gone.
We walk together in memory
My lady's footsteps and I
And still I walk even if my tears
Remind me I shall die
And she never thinks the less of me
Though the will'o'wisps clear light
In darkness and in fears
And a hundred silent nights
Underneath the newest moon.
Every night I walked her home anon
No matter the rain nor wind
Sometimes we shared our quiet fears
And others would remind
Ourselves to all that's been and gone.
We walk together in memory
My lady's footsteps and I
And still I walk even if my tears
Remind me I shall die
And she never thinks the less of me
Monday, November 17, 2008
Short poem that isn't very good
Failings of kindness
in trying to make your feelings
my own;
failings in love
were we both too weak to let go
of us?
Failing to know
whrre knowing reaches wisdom
and peace,
Failure of -- what.
That I see us and no longer
hurt?
in trying to make your feelings
my own;
failings in love
were we both too weak to let go
of us?
Failing to know
whrre knowing reaches wisdom
and peace,
Failure of -- what.
That I see us and no longer
hurt?
Friday, November 07, 2008
Yes, it is late, but grief comes late and early and all..
I believed in you.
I bought into your stories.
How flexible you were.
That you'd be, for me,
during storm or snow,
hail or winter.
I do not believe that,
in these dark times
of dear, or the mail -
but you promised
flexible keys to me,
cleanable keys for me
even mobile mobility!
(In my loss, I can only link
to you, no tears are mine)
And only the old is left,
to be learned again,
because with it I have
spacesandwithyouI
wouldhaveamissing
spacebar (well, half of one).
I bought into your stories.
How flexible you were.
That you'd be, for me,
during storm or snow,
hail or winter.
I do not believe that,
in these dark times
of dear, or the mail -
but you promised
flexible keys to me,
cleanable keys for me
even mobile mobility!
(In my loss, I can only link
to you, no tears are mine)
And only the old is left,
to be learned again,
because with it I have
spacesandwithyouI
wouldhaveamissing
spacebar (well, half of one).
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Muggers
The alley was quiet, a nice shortcut between Sixth and Rogers. I’d used it a few times on dates with Cassie, since her parents were strict on when she got home.
“So how was the movie?”
“Interesting,” Edsel said from beside me in his soft, accentless voice. “I had expected a virtual system.”
“Might happen some day. Right now it’s just to expensive and if everyone sees the movie really differently in VR landscapes. There’s not enough commonality their yet, or something.”
“I would think they all get different things from it regardless.”
“I guess. But they have the same basic experience, not having rejigged a VR to turn the characters into furries or something from their view.”
“Oh.”
“Besides, I just wanted to know if --.”
“Your money, now!” The voice was harsh, a gun waved a the two of us after we walked by the dumpster. The gunman was wearing shades and looked scruffy, sounded desperate.
I looked down at my hands, which remained normal, and got between him and Edsel. “Are you stupid?”
“I said gimme all your money! Now!”
“Do you know how many superhumans and vigilantes this city has?” I demanded. “How many people have you even managed to mug?”
He stared at me, then waved his pistol. “I’ve got the gun!”
“For all you know I could be one,” I snarled.
“You - you haven’t done anything.” He clicked the safety off. “Money! No tricks!”
I glanced down at my hand, saw my skin had begun to turn red and tried to keep the change from reaching my face. I looked back up and sighed. “Why do you even need the money?”
“You’re not my goddamn therapist!” He moved closer towards us, and finally noticed Edsel. “Mother of god....”
I glanced over; Edsel removed the sunglasses he habitually wore outside and was holding them in his hands. Grey, two-fingered alien hands and onyx eyes stared at the would-be mugger.
“He’s just a friend,” I said quickly; I didn’t know what would happen if he shot Edsel, but I doubted most hospitals would be able to treat the wound fast enough.
“I. I.” The mugger threw his gun into the dumpster, added an: “Oh shit,” tonelessly and began to run.
“I didn’t want you getting shot either,” Edsel said calmly as he put the glasses back on. “His motives might be interesting.”
“Right.” I snapped my fingers, two bolts of red energy flashing from my thumb that sliced brick out of the wall in front of the mugger and carved a line in the alleyway in front of him.
The mugger stopped and looked back, then froze.
“You’re going to hurt me, aren’t you?”
I sighed and walked over. “You could have kept running?”
“You - you sliced right through the ground!”
“Oh. Right.” I tried to let me skin return to normal. “Why did you want to mug us”
“You’re not gong to beat me up?”
“Why would I?”
“Your skin turned frikken’ red and-- and--” the mugger waved a hand to the shattered brick wall. “That, to flesh!”’
“I wouldn’t.” He stared at me in disbelief. “Part of my power is being really good at controlling it; I doubt you’d want a demonstration though?”
He nodded.
“So, why this...?” I waved a hand to the dumpster with the gun, but still saw him flinch.
“I lost my job to the Fixer.”
“Sorry, who?”
The mugger scowled. “He fixes stuff. Buildings. Rods. Not much need for public works with assholes like that around.”
“Public works accepts anyone,” Edsel put in quietly from behind me.
“What the alien said. Tried finding a job after that, but --.” He shrugged. “I never finished high school, you know? And I thought about how most people expect the heroes to save them, and figured --.” He shrugged. “First two kids beat the living crap out of me. Street Angel got them into self-defence classes. Ended up running away from a suspicious shadow, you know, the second time.”
“And we were number three?” I said slowly.
“Yeah. I don’t even have insurance against getting beaten up by super-folk, you know? I just didn’t know what to do.”
“Wait, insurance?”
“You’re new at this, aren’t you?” My would-be mugger relaxed a little. “Look, if you spent all your time hitting giant robots, blasting people who can take that,” waving a hand to the line I’d cut in the earth, “All the time, you might hit a regular person too hard one day, right? Or, if not you, some other hero.”
“Oh.”
“It’s why they let the vigilantes deal with muggings. And they’re easy enough to avoid, really. I just --.” He shrugged again.
“There is a Drycleaners down by the warehouse district, fourteenth and Smith. They’re rebuilding, and could use more staff. Easy job to learn, and there is at least one opening.” I grinned. “Take out one superhuman who is having a fit about the state of his clothing and no one looks at you the same again.”
“You really don’t plan to hurt me?”
“I’m not a superhero. So no.” I paused, thinking that over. “That came out really bad, didn’t it?”
“A little,” Edsel said. “And your powers shielding me or not, I need to get home soon. There is -- too much to See out here.”
I nodded, walking past the man who’d tried to mug me and kept going.
“You plan to call and find out if he shows?” Edsel said, sounding a little strained.
I sent out more energy on the infra-level, trying to give him more respite from the amount of information flooding him. “His choice. Sid you see him?”
“Pardon?”
“In the alley. You never issued any warning.”
“I know.”
I looked over, but he looked back without any expression I cold decipher. “I’m not a superhero,” I said. “I don’t plan to be one.”
“I know,” Edsel said again.
“Then what was that about?”
“Giving you reasons why. Reminding you, when you fly, that people don’t look up to see gods overhead.”
“They don’t?”
“They’re too busy watching for falling debris,” the alien said, and we were both silent for the rest of the walk to his home.
“So how was the movie?”
“Interesting,” Edsel said from beside me in his soft, accentless voice. “I had expected a virtual system.”
“Might happen some day. Right now it’s just to expensive and if everyone sees the movie really differently in VR landscapes. There’s not enough commonality their yet, or something.”
“I would think they all get different things from it regardless.”
“I guess. But they have the same basic experience, not having rejigged a VR to turn the characters into furries or something from their view.”
“Oh.”
“Besides, I just wanted to know if --.”
“Your money, now!” The voice was harsh, a gun waved a the two of us after we walked by the dumpster. The gunman was wearing shades and looked scruffy, sounded desperate.
I looked down at my hands, which remained normal, and got between him and Edsel. “Are you stupid?”
“I said gimme all your money! Now!”
“Do you know how many superhumans and vigilantes this city has?” I demanded. “How many people have you even managed to mug?”
He stared at me, then waved his pistol. “I’ve got the gun!”
“For all you know I could be one,” I snarled.
“You - you haven’t done anything.” He clicked the safety off. “Money! No tricks!”
I glanced down at my hand, saw my skin had begun to turn red and tried to keep the change from reaching my face. I looked back up and sighed. “Why do you even need the money?”
“You’re not my goddamn therapist!” He moved closer towards us, and finally noticed Edsel. “Mother of god....”
I glanced over; Edsel removed the sunglasses he habitually wore outside and was holding them in his hands. Grey, two-fingered alien hands and onyx eyes stared at the would-be mugger.
“He’s just a friend,” I said quickly; I didn’t know what would happen if he shot Edsel, but I doubted most hospitals would be able to treat the wound fast enough.
“I. I.” The mugger threw his gun into the dumpster, added an: “Oh shit,” tonelessly and began to run.
“I didn’t want you getting shot either,” Edsel said calmly as he put the glasses back on. “His motives might be interesting.”
“Right.” I snapped my fingers, two bolts of red energy flashing from my thumb that sliced brick out of the wall in front of the mugger and carved a line in the alleyway in front of him.
The mugger stopped and looked back, then froze.
“You’re going to hurt me, aren’t you?”
I sighed and walked over. “You could have kept running?”
“You - you sliced right through the ground!”
“Oh. Right.” I tried to let me skin return to normal. “Why did you want to mug us”
“You’re not gong to beat me up?”
“Why would I?”
“Your skin turned frikken’ red and-- and--” the mugger waved a hand to the shattered brick wall. “That, to flesh!”’
“I wouldn’t.” He stared at me in disbelief. “Part of my power is being really good at controlling it; I doubt you’d want a demonstration though?”
He nodded.
“So, why this...?” I waved a hand to the dumpster with the gun, but still saw him flinch.
“I lost my job to the Fixer.”
“Sorry, who?”
The mugger scowled. “He fixes stuff. Buildings. Rods. Not much need for public works with assholes like that around.”
“Public works accepts anyone,” Edsel put in quietly from behind me.
“What the alien said. Tried finding a job after that, but --.” He shrugged. “I never finished high school, you know? And I thought about how most people expect the heroes to save them, and figured --.” He shrugged. “First two kids beat the living crap out of me. Street Angel got them into self-defence classes. Ended up running away from a suspicious shadow, you know, the second time.”
“And we were number three?” I said slowly.
“Yeah. I don’t even have insurance against getting beaten up by super-folk, you know? I just didn’t know what to do.”
“Wait, insurance?”
“You’re new at this, aren’t you?” My would-be mugger relaxed a little. “Look, if you spent all your time hitting giant robots, blasting people who can take that,” waving a hand to the line I’d cut in the earth, “All the time, you might hit a regular person too hard one day, right? Or, if not you, some other hero.”
“Oh.”
“It’s why they let the vigilantes deal with muggings. And they’re easy enough to avoid, really. I just --.” He shrugged again.
“There is a Drycleaners down by the warehouse district, fourteenth and Smith. They’re rebuilding, and could use more staff. Easy job to learn, and there is at least one opening.” I grinned. “Take out one superhuman who is having a fit about the state of his clothing and no one looks at you the same again.”
“You really don’t plan to hurt me?”
“I’m not a superhero. So no.” I paused, thinking that over. “That came out really bad, didn’t it?”
“A little,” Edsel said. “And your powers shielding me or not, I need to get home soon. There is -- too much to See out here.”
I nodded, walking past the man who’d tried to mug me and kept going.
“You plan to call and find out if he shows?” Edsel said, sounding a little strained.
I sent out more energy on the infra-level, trying to give him more respite from the amount of information flooding him. “His choice. Sid you see him?”
“Pardon?”
“In the alley. You never issued any warning.”
“I know.”
I looked over, but he looked back without any expression I cold decipher. “I’m not a superhero,” I said. “I don’t plan to be one.”
“I know,” Edsel said again.
“Then what was that about?”
“Giving you reasons why. Reminding you, when you fly, that people don’t look up to see gods overhead.”
“They don’t?”
“They’re too busy watching for falling debris,” the alien said, and we were both silent for the rest of the walk to his home.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
The Quest
I'm the locker room joke come to life. Everyone makes those jokes, about the kid who can see into the girls locker room, or the invisible pervert. I'm superhuman: I can do both those things, and a few more beside. I can shift my shape and sneak into places, through barriers -- but none if makes a superhero.
Not that I ever wanted to be one. We all grew up reading about them, about their exploits and their deed, and until the Super Expose came along no one probed into marriages, team rivalries, bad passport photos: they'd all be scared. But not Mac the Maverick. He went after all of them (even Atomic Crunch) and they beat up photographers issued restraining orders, blew up his offices, sued him -- and that was just the superheroes. But he published anyway , the truth, the lies, the slurs that people gave up and got paid for (sometimes) and showed, sometimes painfully, how thin the veneer of 'super' lies over that of 'human'.
Everyone hates me. Even those who loved what he did hated him. But I never did. I wasn't going to go around calling myself Peeping Tom and being some superhero, or some villain, or work for some shitty shadow government. I was going to get rich. And I did and I have. I don't do it for the money anymore. Mac has other superpaparazzi for that these days. I just follow special projects, like The Eight.
And Dance Master. He's fast, he flies: that makes him hard to take pictures of, track, pin down. I've followed him for that alone. And seen him dance. I've seen his dances that kill ninjas, his dances to woo women, his death dance that took down an entire Chess Board in close quarters. I've seen him at his strongest, his weakest, and every point between.
But he' s clever. For all the press hounds him, he declares he has no boyfriend at all. I understand why: he doesn't get many endorsement deals as it is. I know finding this will hurt him. But there is nothing more important than truth, no matter how many stones we uncover to get at it. He's handsome. Beautiful. Athletic. Male. And his power is superdancing for chrissakes. Anyone can draw the lines, but he still refuses to let them put the picture together.
I admire that. I really do. But it does not prevent me from doing my job. Nor the women he brings home and screws like wine bottles. (I called it "corking them" in an editorial; the lawsuit is ongoing.) I know it's just a cover. I know he loves me, deep inside. I know what his powers are trying to tell him.
I know he'll understand, some day. The letters, the roses. the articles. All of it. We only hurt the ones we love. All he has to do is admit what everyone knows. And I will applaud his bravery, smile
my bedroom smile, and he will know how much I cared for him, how much I love him, to drag him into the light.. With one simple camera, and a flash.
Not that I ever wanted to be one. We all grew up reading about them, about their exploits and their deed, and until the Super Expose came along no one probed into marriages, team rivalries, bad passport photos: they'd all be scared. But not Mac the Maverick. He went after all of them (even Atomic Crunch) and they beat up photographers issued restraining orders, blew up his offices, sued him -- and that was just the superheroes. But he published anyway , the truth, the lies, the slurs that people gave up and got paid for (sometimes) and showed, sometimes painfully, how thin the veneer of 'super' lies over that of 'human'.
Everyone hates me. Even those who loved what he did hated him. But I never did. I wasn't going to go around calling myself Peeping Tom and being some superhero, or some villain, or work for some shitty shadow government. I was going to get rich. And I did and I have. I don't do it for the money anymore. Mac has other superpaparazzi for that these days. I just follow special projects, like The Eight.
And Dance Master. He's fast, he flies: that makes him hard to take pictures of, track, pin down. I've followed him for that alone. And seen him dance. I've seen his dances that kill ninjas, his dances to woo women, his death dance that took down an entire Chess Board in close quarters. I've seen him at his strongest, his weakest, and every point between.
But he' s clever. For all the press hounds him, he declares he has no boyfriend at all. I understand why: he doesn't get many endorsement deals as it is. I know finding this will hurt him. But there is nothing more important than truth, no matter how many stones we uncover to get at it. He's handsome. Beautiful. Athletic. Male. And his power is superdancing for chrissakes. Anyone can draw the lines, but he still refuses to let them put the picture together.
I admire that. I really do. But it does not prevent me from doing my job. Nor the women he brings home and screws like wine bottles. (I called it "corking them" in an editorial; the lawsuit is ongoing.) I know it's just a cover. I know he loves me, deep inside. I know what his powers are trying to tell him.
I know he'll understand, some day. The letters, the roses. the articles. All of it. We only hurt the ones we love. All he has to do is admit what everyone knows. And I will applaud his bravery, smile
my bedroom smile, and he will know how much I cared for him, how much I love him, to drag him into the light.. With one simple camera, and a flash.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Fragment
It all depends on upon the things it all depends upon
When the air is full of whispers, and the sky is filled with pain
And no one is there to tell you just what it's supposed to mean
When the air is full of whispers, and the sky is filled with pain
And no one is there to tell you just what it's supposed to mean
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Power
They lock them away, once they can do more than destroy mountains. In dark places, or stasis fields, or other dimensions. Some might simply be killed; I am not sure. My brother wonders about this more than I, because he is Teleshaper, one of the three most powerful telekinetics in the world that the world allows for.
He is a superhero, because otherwise he would have been locked away in fear. He hides his true strength, because they will lock him away regardless if he uses it. His secret is that he is stronger than anyone knows, strong enough to juggle mountains. Strong enough to tear the planet in half. Maybe.
And he’s a hero. But there is mind control, and trickery, and madness: he could be pushed to that, the people who make the hard decisions think. The ones who allow the Atomic family to exist for reasons all their own.
I’m just his younger brother. They tested me, too, but found nothing. Mom can fly, dad is a decent teek. I’m just normal. It’s my secret, one even the Institute that studied me might not know. I can make other things normal, too. I’m average. Boring. And I can stop their powers, by thinking about it. I can make any of them normal too.
My brother can level mountains. I could stop him from doing that; does that mean I am more powerful than he is? More powerful than even Atomic Storm? The Six? Possibly. that’s my big secret, that I could beat nay of them. That I could drag them down to the human level, and then punch them a few times. Some of them have probably never even bled before.
I watch them on the TV, and wonder which ones I’d hurt the most. Even the heroes would be afraid of me. And I would die. Every time the urge get strong, I tell myself that. they are heroes, and villains. They are our gods, sometimes. They would kill me, for dragging them down. Others would help them, because I’d hurt their saviours.
I try and work out how long I’d have, before someone would kill me. I wonder how many other people are out there, like me, who can stop powers from working. I wonder how many the Institute knows about, how many die in accidents, how many get snatched up into covert groups and die in secrecy.
I am more powerful than the most powerful superhuman on this planet, and I am too afraid of dying to ever use my power. It’s almost funny, except it’s not. I wonder how many of them would want to be normal, how many would protect me if it came to that, but I don’t know. I don’t know.
I just watch them on TV, and ignore the digs by my brother at me because I’m just ‘normal’ and my parents constant waiting for me to develop powers, to make something of myself, and keep my secret deep inside.
I go through a lot of Tums. But I still have it. And they don’t look as scary, or as impressive, when I know what I could do to them, to all of them. If only no one would hate me, when they knew my secret, if only they’d realize I’d be saving them, making the suerphumans remember they were human, if only I could be sure it would get rid o the ulcers if only ...
But I turn the TV off, when the news finishes, and go to bed. Not tonight. I have a crappy job, but my secret gives me strength. Lets me endure everyone. I won’t give that up today.
Even if I need to by more Tums next week.
He is a superhero, because otherwise he would have been locked away in fear. He hides his true strength, because they will lock him away regardless if he uses it. His secret is that he is stronger than anyone knows, strong enough to juggle mountains. Strong enough to tear the planet in half. Maybe.
And he’s a hero. But there is mind control, and trickery, and madness: he could be pushed to that, the people who make the hard decisions think. The ones who allow the Atomic family to exist for reasons all their own.
I’m just his younger brother. They tested me, too, but found nothing. Mom can fly, dad is a decent teek. I’m just normal. It’s my secret, one even the Institute that studied me might not know. I can make other things normal, too. I’m average. Boring. And I can stop their powers, by thinking about it. I can make any of them normal too.
My brother can level mountains. I could stop him from doing that; does that mean I am more powerful than he is? More powerful than even Atomic Storm? The Six? Possibly. that’s my big secret, that I could beat nay of them. That I could drag them down to the human level, and then punch them a few times. Some of them have probably never even bled before.
I watch them on the TV, and wonder which ones I’d hurt the most. Even the heroes would be afraid of me. And I would die. Every time the urge get strong, I tell myself that. they are heroes, and villains. They are our gods, sometimes. They would kill me, for dragging them down. Others would help them, because I’d hurt their saviours.
I try and work out how long I’d have, before someone would kill me. I wonder how many other people are out there, like me, who can stop powers from working. I wonder how many the Institute knows about, how many die in accidents, how many get snatched up into covert groups and die in secrecy.
I am more powerful than the most powerful superhuman on this planet, and I am too afraid of dying to ever use my power. It’s almost funny, except it’s not. I wonder how many of them would want to be normal, how many would protect me if it came to that, but I don’t know. I don’t know.
I just watch them on TV, and ignore the digs by my brother at me because I’m just ‘normal’ and my parents constant waiting for me to develop powers, to make something of myself, and keep my secret deep inside.
I go through a lot of Tums. But I still have it. And they don’t look as scary, or as impressive, when I know what I could do to them, to all of them. If only no one would hate me, when they knew my secret, if only they’d realize I’d be saving them, making the suerphumans remember they were human, if only I could be sure it would get rid o the ulcers if only ...
But I turn the TV off, when the news finishes, and go to bed. Not tonight. I have a crappy job, but my secret gives me strength. Lets me endure everyone. I won’t give that up today.
Even if I need to by more Tums next week.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
To Show
There's an empty hollow in the corner
where once a rocking chair of wood
some times you come there and you've stood
tears don't come even when they should
It feels like the whole world's quiet, silent
before the grave; feelings only violent
a single harsh breath silenced; there it went
Across the roads, through the woods you used
to walk through and they're all waiting, all confused
everyone knows you were never abused
everyone knows
they're only waiting for the final mourner
where once a rocking chair of wood
some times you come there and you've stood
tears don't come even when they should
It feels like the whole world's quiet, silent
before the grave; feelings only violent
a single harsh breath silenced; there it went
Across the roads, through the woods you used
to walk through and they're all waiting, all confused
everyone knows you were never abused
everyone knows
they're only waiting for the final mourner
Thursday, September 18, 2008
morning
The day too-bright summer
hot, the sky empty-clear azure
blue never reaches
Clouded, his thoughts are
owned, not shied from, hands
dark and heavy, light above
Cancerous, a world full of omen
meaning craving for a hunger
hope gnawing inside.
hot, the sky empty-clear azure
blue never reaches
Clouded, his thoughts are
owned, not shied from, hands
dark and heavy, light above
Cancerous, a world full of omen
meaning craving for a hunger
hope gnawing inside.
Monday, September 08, 2008
To Love That Never Was
There must have been a reason
Sometime and way back then
For everything you did, and didn't
And the way that things begun.
I'd like to think I understood
Or could have been a friend
But you only lets the cats close
And each died in the end.
From cars and dogs and people
But each you bore with pride
To come home with a new pet
And a secret deep inside.
The day I found the pet food
And the rat poison jar
After you'd bemoaned vet bills
And the last died to your car.
I watched the dogs come next
They came and died so fast
I wondered what they took from you
And how long you could last
I never said I loved you, just
Held for hope in vain
And then I found the dog food
The night of storm and rain
I'd been helping you because of
A wild night of hail and wind
And what I saw I never spoke
And fear I hid behind
When the vet clued in years later
When just one dog got loose
My brother was the one to find you
Holding your makeshift noose
You said it was a leash and laughed
(He still pales to recall)
The dog's eyes filled with broken thing
and he cowered to the wall
I know all this and more beside
I'd followed all the news
And yet when I see your face
I still feel so confused
Sometime and way back then
For everything you did, and didn't
And the way that things begun.
I'd like to think I understood
Or could have been a friend
But you only lets the cats close
And each died in the end.
From cars and dogs and people
But each you bore with pride
To come home with a new pet
And a secret deep inside.
The day I found the pet food
And the rat poison jar
After you'd bemoaned vet bills
And the last died to your car.
I watched the dogs come next
They came and died so fast
I wondered what they took from you
And how long you could last
I never said I loved you, just
Held for hope in vain
And then I found the dog food
The night of storm and rain
I'd been helping you because of
A wild night of hail and wind
And what I saw I never spoke
And fear I hid behind
When the vet clued in years later
When just one dog got loose
My brother was the one to find you
Holding your makeshift noose
You said it was a leash and laughed
(He still pales to recall)
The dog's eyes filled with broken thing
and he cowered to the wall
I know all this and more beside
I'd followed all the news
And yet when I see your face
I still feel so confused
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Untitled piece
The home of the alchemist Ikhthu turned out to be a giant fish, bright blue and preserved by unknown means. Dead bodies hung off the enormous tail under a large sign that read ‘graffiti is not tolerated on the whale’.
“You’re certain he won’t kill me?” Quinn said slowly as they stared up at the rotting corpses.
“You heal,” Carson said absently.
“Right.” Quinn squinted. “Their legs and arms?”
Carson looked up, then shrugged. “Why would an alchemist waste parts?”
Quinn turned a little pale but managed a smile and followed Carson to the side of the fish, which had stairs in need of repair leading up to a door.
Carson walked up and rapped on the door. “Hey!”
The door was opened a few minutes later by a kid of about 10, who scowled up at them. “Oh, you.” His skin was a pale green and his voice odd and bubbly and one hand had been replaced by a red claw at some point. “I don’t recall asking for anything from you this week?”
“I need a favour.” Carson nodded to Quinn. “He has writing under his skin; we need to know what it says.”
“Oh?” he snapped his claw thoughtfully. “Now I’m interested. Come in.”
“How old is he?” Quinn whispered as he followed Carson in.
“I’m almost twelve,” Ikhthu snapped, not turning around.
Carson just smiled at Quinn, then looked around. the interior of Ikhthu’s home hadn’t changed, though there were even more fish tanks and the walls were covered in details drawings and notes scattered about seemingly at random.
“You used to have a bed?”
Ikhthu waved his human hand to a tank of water. “This is easier; the bed too up too much space.”
“Ah. I guess that’s why you have gills?”
“Don’t need them. They look cool, though, right?”
Carson nodded. “You’re still making fish men?”
“Trying to.” He scowled, heading around tanks to the back. “My backer keeps wanting breasts on them.”
“Breasts?” Quinn asked, looking into a tank. A creature, neither male nor female, was in it, covered in green scales with a mouth of sharp teeth and alien eyes that stared back at Quinn without blinking.
“I told him that would make them less aerodynamic,” the alchemist said. “And he only wants the female ones. I’m going to have to change how they breed to take that into account. they could impregnate themselves if I do it right.”
Quinn looked back. “What?”
“Just how flexible are they?” Carson said, trying not to laugh at Quinn’s expression.
Ikhthu gave them both a blank look. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“He probably wants to use the for sex,” Carson said.
“Excuse me? I am the alchemist. That means I am the insane one. Did you see the claws and teeth? You don’t have sex with things that can rip you into shreds. Even I know that.”
“You’d be amazed what people will do for some fun.”
“The same people who think alchemists are mad?” the boy frowned. The standards may have to be revised. I would not copulate with a fish person, even if my equipment was functional yet -- is something wrong with your friend?”
“Quinn? He has coughing fits sometime.”
“I see. I built the fish men to survive predatation, Carson. I could see keeping them on display at art, but other things -- that is, at the least, foolish.”
“It’s okay; you replaced your hand with a fish claw; you’re still insane in my books.”
“I am beginning to consider that I may be sane; insanity seems the only rational response to an insane world, thus I am sane.”
“What did you make the fish people for?” Quinn said
“To see which one would survive when I throw them all in a giant tank of course. That will determine the next generation build.”
“And this is sane?”
“Saner than having sex with them. Now what do you want?”
“He needs to go in a solution so we can read the writing under his skin,” Carson said. “If you can do that?”
“Of course. Do you want him alive after?”
“I want me alive after,” Quinn snapped.
“I could make you better?”
“No thank you.”
“Faster.”
“I said no.”
“Stronger.”
“No!”
“With gills!”
“Ikhthu,” Carson interrupted, “just what we want, all right?”
The alchemist sighed. “Everyone would be better with gills. Fine. get into the vat near the front, I’ll add the solution, and you just swim around.”
“That’s all?” Quinn said.
“Unless you want --.” Ikhthu sighed. “Figures. No, that’s it.”
Quinn shrugged and stripped, lowering himself into the cold water and swimming around slowly as the alchemist added red dye and just watched. Quinn swam, ignoring the whispered conversation with Carson involving “just one fish man? Please?” as best he could, and the world began to swim along with hi. danger hit, hard, a feeling like ants over his skin and his body grew numb and distant as he sank into the reddened water.
“Is he supposed to float without moving?”
“Well, probably, no. You don’t seem worried?”
Carson smiled tightly. “Quinn surprises me.”
Ikhthu looked up in surprise. “You knew my solution would kill him?”
“I thought it might.”
“Are you people really certain we alchemists are the mad ones?”
Carson shrugged and grabbed rope, hauling Quinn out and starting at the words under his skin. “Parchment. Now.”
He began writing quickly, reversing letters easily. They were in code as well, but that was easy enough to decipher. He finished the chest as the colour faded, frowning at the results.
“What’s it say?” Quinn said, not moving.
“Surprising things. Your pages are important. You are aware you aren’t breathing/’
“Oh.” Quinn started breathing again slowly, coughed up some water, and stood, finding his clothing and dressing.
Ikhthu made a happy burbling sound and regarded Quinn hungrily.
“We need to go now,” Carson said. “You’d be a perfect lab specimen.”
Quinn just nodded and followed him outside slowly.
“Don’t ask. We need to get back to the apartment, and talk.”
“You’re certain he won’t kill me?” Quinn said slowly as they stared up at the rotting corpses.
“You heal,” Carson said absently.
“Right.” Quinn squinted. “Their legs and arms?”
Carson looked up, then shrugged. “Why would an alchemist waste parts?”
Quinn turned a little pale but managed a smile and followed Carson to the side of the fish, which had stairs in need of repair leading up to a door.
Carson walked up and rapped on the door. “Hey!”
The door was opened a few minutes later by a kid of about 10, who scowled up at them. “Oh, you.” His skin was a pale green and his voice odd and bubbly and one hand had been replaced by a red claw at some point. “I don’t recall asking for anything from you this week?”
“I need a favour.” Carson nodded to Quinn. “He has writing under his skin; we need to know what it says.”
“Oh?” he snapped his claw thoughtfully. “Now I’m interested. Come in.”
“How old is he?” Quinn whispered as he followed Carson in.
“I’m almost twelve,” Ikhthu snapped, not turning around.
Carson just smiled at Quinn, then looked around. the interior of Ikhthu’s home hadn’t changed, though there were even more fish tanks and the walls were covered in details drawings and notes scattered about seemingly at random.
“You used to have a bed?”
Ikhthu waved his human hand to a tank of water. “This is easier; the bed too up too much space.”
“Ah. I guess that’s why you have gills?”
“Don’t need them. They look cool, though, right?”
Carson nodded. “You’re still making fish men?”
“Trying to.” He scowled, heading around tanks to the back. “My backer keeps wanting breasts on them.”
“Breasts?” Quinn asked, looking into a tank. A creature, neither male nor female, was in it, covered in green scales with a mouth of sharp teeth and alien eyes that stared back at Quinn without blinking.
“I told him that would make them less aerodynamic,” the alchemist said. “And he only wants the female ones. I’m going to have to change how they breed to take that into account. they could impregnate themselves if I do it right.”
Quinn looked back. “What?”
“Just how flexible are they?” Carson said, trying not to laugh at Quinn’s expression.
Ikhthu gave them both a blank look. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“He probably wants to use the for sex,” Carson said.
“Excuse me? I am the alchemist. That means I am the insane one. Did you see the claws and teeth? You don’t have sex with things that can rip you into shreds. Even I know that.”
“You’d be amazed what people will do for some fun.”
“The same people who think alchemists are mad?” the boy frowned. The standards may have to be revised. I would not copulate with a fish person, even if my equipment was functional yet -- is something wrong with your friend?”
“Quinn? He has coughing fits sometime.”
“I see. I built the fish men to survive predatation, Carson. I could see keeping them on display at art, but other things -- that is, at the least, foolish.”
“It’s okay; you replaced your hand with a fish claw; you’re still insane in my books.”
“I am beginning to consider that I may be sane; insanity seems the only rational response to an insane world, thus I am sane.”
“What did you make the fish people for?” Quinn said
“To see which one would survive when I throw them all in a giant tank of course. That will determine the next generation build.”
“And this is sane?”
“Saner than having sex with them. Now what do you want?”
“He needs to go in a solution so we can read the writing under his skin,” Carson said. “If you can do that?”
“Of course. Do you want him alive after?”
“I want me alive after,” Quinn snapped.
“I could make you better?”
“No thank you.”
“Faster.”
“I said no.”
“Stronger.”
“No!”
“With gills!”
“Ikhthu,” Carson interrupted, “just what we want, all right?”
The alchemist sighed. “Everyone would be better with gills. Fine. get into the vat near the front, I’ll add the solution, and you just swim around.”
“That’s all?” Quinn said.
“Unless you want --.” Ikhthu sighed. “Figures. No, that’s it.”
Quinn shrugged and stripped, lowering himself into the cold water and swimming around slowly as the alchemist added red dye and just watched. Quinn swam, ignoring the whispered conversation with Carson involving “just one fish man? Please?” as best he could, and the world began to swim along with hi. danger hit, hard, a feeling like ants over his skin and his body grew numb and distant as he sank into the reddened water.
“Is he supposed to float without moving?”
“Well, probably, no. You don’t seem worried?”
Carson smiled tightly. “Quinn surprises me.”
Ikhthu looked up in surprise. “You knew my solution would kill him?”
“I thought it might.”
“Are you people really certain we alchemists are the mad ones?”
Carson shrugged and grabbed rope, hauling Quinn out and starting at the words under his skin. “Parchment. Now.”
He began writing quickly, reversing letters easily. They were in code as well, but that was easy enough to decipher. He finished the chest as the colour faded, frowning at the results.
“What’s it say?” Quinn said, not moving.
“Surprising things. Your pages are important. You are aware you aren’t breathing/’
“Oh.” Quinn started breathing again slowly, coughed up some water, and stood, finding his clothing and dressing.
Ikhthu made a happy burbling sound and regarded Quinn hungrily.
“We need to go now,” Carson said. “You’d be a perfect lab specimen.”
Quinn just nodded and followed him outside slowly.
“Don’t ask. We need to get back to the apartment, and talk.”
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Untitled
All that is left
is a blackened pot
drying on a rack
cutlery scattered
under it, kindling.
Cold to the touch
as if it were iron
or had burned under
cold fire:
If things were -- different --
the water drying
would be your tears,
something left behind.
is a blackened pot
drying on a rack
cutlery scattered
under it, kindling.
Cold to the touch
as if it were iron
or had burned under
cold fire:
If things were -- different --
the water drying
would be your tears,
something left behind.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Small little poem found in a file
I've been plotting out your thoughts, I have to say:
Following down your neuron pathways
Isn't quite the same when all I'm doing is waiting
For you to think my name
With another word than friend.
I'm making t-shirt slogans from your dreams
Soothing all your unquiet fears
Never wondering what I'm doig, from this task
Never pausing, only waiting
For other than the ending.
The machine keeps making noises, I keep making notes
Funding's cutting, i'm low on choices
I want to turn off the machine, turn it all off and ask ...
(I can't keep loving you by rote)
Can you just once not codescend?
Following down your neuron pathways
Isn't quite the same when all I'm doing is waiting
For you to think my name
With another word than friend.
I'm making t-shirt slogans from your dreams
Soothing all your unquiet fears
Never wondering what I'm doig, from this task
Never pausing, only waiting
For other than the ending.
The machine keeps making noises, I keep making notes
Funding's cutting, i'm low on choices
I want to turn off the machine, turn it all off and ask ...
(I can't keep loving you by rote)
Can you just once not codescend?
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Why
Why?
It is one of the first things we wonder. For some, the only thing we ever really say. But there is never an answer. We think there is, or should be, but all we have is this life, and then death. It's all we know we have, all we really get. Everything else is guesswork, desperation, faith.
We pray when the dead are dying, when we're in pain, when hope has fled us, when we have nothing else -- prayer is what is left when there are no other options., no other changes, no other hope left to us. That's the only time faith comes in. We only mean then when they're all we have left, when everything else has failed us and we can only hope for miracles or gifts, or rewards.
We offer anything, then. And those we care for still die. Nothing changes that. Not magic, not will, not power. In the end, our god fail us as much as everything else does. We end, and we die, and our story is over. no matter our goals, hopes, desires, dreams -- in the end it all comes to naught, nothing, finished.
We finally learn that our desires cannot change the ways things are. But this is not the worst thing, no, not at all. Even outliving those you love is not that. But part of it is in there. They die, and we go on. They die, and the world goes on. We who have lost so much, been so deeply shattered, waken to realize it means nothing. The world continues as it was. As if nothing happened.
So, to the why, there is nothing. We will die as well, and the world will continue. People wll get up, and go to work, and laugh and love and hate, and we will be only the past, and they will all look to the future. We will learn that the world doesn't break when we do, how insignificant we truly are.
And I wonder, walking, if old people wonder this, with eyes still clear and hands close to the triggers of bombs. If they think they would matter, if it ended with a bang and not a whimper. If they ask why, and all they get back is
"Why not?"
It is one of the first things we wonder. For some, the only thing we ever really say. But there is never an answer. We think there is, or should be, but all we have is this life, and then death. It's all we know we have, all we really get. Everything else is guesswork, desperation, faith.
We pray when the dead are dying, when we're in pain, when hope has fled us, when we have nothing else -- prayer is what is left when there are no other options., no other changes, no other hope left to us. That's the only time faith comes in. We only mean then when they're all we have left, when everything else has failed us and we can only hope for miracles or gifts, or rewards.
We offer anything, then. And those we care for still die. Nothing changes that. Not magic, not will, not power. In the end, our god fail us as much as everything else does. We end, and we die, and our story is over. no matter our goals, hopes, desires, dreams -- in the end it all comes to naught, nothing, finished.
We finally learn that our desires cannot change the ways things are. But this is not the worst thing, no, not at all. Even outliving those you love is not that. But part of it is in there. They die, and we go on. They die, and the world goes on. We who have lost so much, been so deeply shattered, waken to realize it means nothing. The world continues as it was. As if nothing happened.
So, to the why, there is nothing. We will die as well, and the world will continue. People wll get up, and go to work, and laugh and love and hate, and we will be only the past, and they will all look to the future. We will learn that the world doesn't break when we do, how insignificant we truly are.
And I wonder, walking, if old people wonder this, with eyes still clear and hands close to the triggers of bombs. If they think they would matter, if it ended with a bang and not a whimper. If they ask why, and all they get back is
"Why not?"
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